Michelle Sagara - Cast In Courtlight

“No.”

“Then he probably thought it best you didn’t know.” “I don’t.”

“Good.” He shoved her to one side and sat; the chair creaked. He’d managed to split leather twice. “Do not mess with the Arcanists.”

“Sir.”

“How many Festivals have you patrolled?”

“Officially?”

“Or unofficially.”

“Enough.” The fact that she was evasive meant that some of those patrols had occurred while her life was rooted in the fief of Nightshade. She’d been a child, then. And she probably hadn’t been there to preserve the peace or prevent a crime.

“Good. You are aware that a few unscrupulous men—”

“A f ew?” Very few people did sarcasm as well as Kaylin.

“Very well, if you insist on being picky. A few competent and unscrupulous men work under the cover of the Festival crowds for their own ends?”

“Sir.”

“Good. In all of your many colorful descriptions of High Caste Barrani Lords, did any of them include stupid?” “No, sir.”

“Good. Lord Evarrim is not a stupid man.” “He’s not a man, sir.” “That’s enough, Kaylin.”

“Sir.”

“If he is aware of your presence in the streets, it is likely that he will take the opportunity to interview you. As we’ve now denied his pleasant request three times, he’ll be composing less pleasant requests, which are often misunderstood by little Sergeants like me—” and here his voice did break in a growl “—and mislabeled as threats. It isn’t as if he hasn’t asked politely, after all.

“Have you ever been to the High Court?”

“No.”

“You think of it as a place of refinement and unearthly beauty.”

“No, sir! I—”

He lifted a paw. Inspected it for invisible splinters. Let her splutter for a few more minutes. “It is beautiful in exactly the same way the Emperor’s sword is beautiful—it is a work of art, and it is usually drawn for only one purpose. You do not want to be present when the blade is exposed.”

“Sir.”

“Good. You will sit this Festival out. And before you start whining, may I just point out how many Hawks would switch places with you in a second?”

“Yes, sir.” She sounded deflated.

He wasn’t fooled. “Give me the notebook, Kaylin.”

She didn’t spit; this was an improvement over her thirteen-year-old self. But it took her a minute to find the notebook, which, given it was clutched in her hands, was an accomplishment.

As she began to walk away from the desk, he said, “If you access Records for this information, I’ll have your hide.”

“Yes, Marcus.”

She accidentally met Severn just outside of the Quartermaster’s hall. Where accident had much to do with a bit of careful deduction, the information on the duty roster, and a damn boring wait.

The fact that he’d nursed her to health after saving the lives of many orphaned children had made an impression; enough of an impression that Kaylin had chosen to avoid him in every way possible for the past couple of weeks.

If he noticed, he gave no sign. But that was Severn all over. After all, he’d joined the damn Wolves and waited for her to find him for seven long years, watching from gods only knew which shadows, a window into the past.

She wasn’t fond of windows. For one, it encouraged thieves, and for two, it made heating a small room that much harder.

But she could look at him, now. She could stand beside him without feeling guilt about the fact that he hadn’t yet died. Or, if she were being truthful, that she hadn’t killed him.

He raised a brow as she slid off the long bench that discouraged loitering. “Kaylin.” His tone of voice told her pretty much everything she needed to know.

She fell into step beside him; he was practically gleaming. Official armor fell off his shoulders like a curtain of glimmering steel, which is pretty much what it was. The Hawks wore surcoats; he hadn’t bothered to put his on. Like Kaylin, he’d grown up in the poorest streets of the city, and like Kaylin, he’d had no parents to rely on. No one to tell him how to dress, and when, and why, for a start.

No one to dress his wounds, to tell him to avoid the streets of the fiefs at night; no one to tell him how to avoid the men who preyed on children, or pressed them into early service.

Like Kaylin, he’d learned those lessons on his own.

“You’ve seen your assignment?” he asked her. He had to look down, and it irritated her. There should, she thought, be strict height limits on entry.

“Yes.”

“I heard a, ah, rumor.” “It’s true.”

“You don’t know what it is yet.”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’s probably true.” She hesitated and added, “Which rumor?”

“You offended another Imperial mage.”

“Oh, that.” She shrugged. She half expected him to smile. But not even Kaylin was up to the delusion required to see his curt frown as mirth. “Have you heard about Teela?”

He said a lot of nothing, and kept walking. She took that as a yes. “I was thinking,” she began.

“Oh? When?”

“Very funny. You’ve never worked a Festival before—the Wolves don’t mingle well.”

“I’ve been called upon for the Festival,” he replied, his words carefully neutral. It surprised her, though.

“You have?”

His smile was like a wall. A fortified wall. “Never mind. Working as a Hawk isn’t the same.” “No. It’s been more … interesting.”

“It won’t be. You’ll be given permits and the new ordinances, and you’ll be sent out to talk to a bunch of whiny, hot, would-be merchants. The unlicensed variety.”

“I believe I’ve met a few.” He shrugged. “I won’t be near the market.”

“The market isn’t the problem. Well, okay, breaking up the fights between actual, licensed merchants is—but the Swords do most of that.”

He stopped walking. “I am not taking you with me.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Good.”

“But I noticed you haven’t been assigned a partner, and I was wondering—”

“Kaylin, do I look like I’m still breathing?”

“It’s been five years since Marcus actually killed anyone—”

“I’d like to see six.” He shook his head. “If you’re concerned about Teela, take my advice. Don’t be. She’s Barrani. These are her games.”

“She’s a Hawk!”

“She’s been a Hawk for a very, very short time. She’s been Barrani for a very, very long time.” “You don’t know her as well as I do.” “Clearly.”

“Severn—”

He held up a hand. “While tolerance for your interpretation of punctuality seems unnaturally high, it also seems to be granted only to you.” He started to walk again, and then stopped. “I don’t want you out in the streets,” he said without looking back. “For the same reason that neither Marcus nor the Hawklord do. But I’m not Marcus, and I’m not the Hawklord.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have more to lose if you disobey your orders.”

A reminder. One she didn’t want.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he continued, without looking back. “But stay here. Not even the Arcanum will attempt to reach you in these halls.”

“I have to go home sometime.”

He hit the wall. The movement was so fast she didn’t see it coming; she jumped back in surprise. “I know,” he said softly. And left her.

Severn was not there to walk her home, for which she was profoundly grateful. The area in which she lived wasn’t noted for its crime, and the only major threat to the streets that bounded her building had been a few ferals that had managed to make it across the Ablayne River.